


A Change of Seasons

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year in Sherwood Forest. <i>Everything is the same as always. Everything looks and smells and sounds just as it did when they left, just like it did last year and the year before, and something is profoundly </i>wrong<i> with that.</i> (Spoilers for the series two finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change of Seasons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magic_at_mungos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magic_at_mungos/gifts).



_I. (maybe I've been here before)_

They return to England a few days after Christmas. 

Sherwood Forest lies quiet and vast before them, and Robin grips the reins tightly and brings his horse to a halt, taking deep breaths of icy air until his lungs feel like bursting. The others ride on for a few moments before they realize that Robin is not with them anymore. Turning their horses around, they look at him with questions in their eyes. 

"What's wrong, Master?" Much asks.

Robin shakes his head. He can't put into words the uneasy feeling that's gripped him at the familiar sight of this place. Everything is the same as always. Everything looks and smells and sounds just as it did when they left, just like it did last year and the year before, and something is profoundly _wrong_ with that. It shouldn't be this easy, coming home. Because this isn't home anymore. Not without Marian.

He remembers Marian in the forest with him, those few weeks following her father's death when she stayed with him: kissing her on the soft, mossy ground, her face bathed in sunlight filtering through the leaves. Sherwood suited her. He's hit by the realisation, sharp and sudden, that the memories he has of her here in this forest will never be added to, and for a moment, he can't bear the sight of this place. _Let's go somewhere else, find a new place to stay_ , he wants to say, but even thinking it feels ridiculous.

Shaking his head, both in an attempt to clear his mind and as a negative answer to the question, he says, "It's nothing. Let's go."

He rides on, towards the forest. As he passes Allan and John, he catches the look that passes between them – a look that says: _He's losing it._

Robin grinds his teeth and digs his heels into the horse's sides, urging it on.

They find the camp as they've left it, except for the food which is all either rotten or gone, carried away by hungry animals. Much finds a loaf of old, hard bread stored away under one of the hiding places Will built, and Robin feels another stab of loss. 

This time, he's not the only one. Allan looks around the camp with a frown.

"Feels a bit weird, doesn't it, without Will and Djaq and—" He stops before saying the name that's on everyone's minds. "Well, just feels weird."

"Yes, it does," Robin says quietly. Weird. Right. That's one word for it.

* * *

_II. (I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch)_

The Sheriff is at odds with Prince John, and for a while, Robin is foolish enough to believe it'll make his life easier if King Richard's enemies are busy fighting each other. It seems, however, that they still find enough time to squeeze in fighting him somewhere in between. What's worse, now John doesn't actually trust Vaisey to do the job and sends his own men, and the Sheriff keeps sending his, which effectively leaves Robin fighting on two fronts.

The camp is safe – for now, at least – but whenever they venture out to Nottingham or the villages, their escapes are getting closer and closer. It would be hard enough for six people to get the job done. With Robin's men reduced to four, it's all but impossible. One day they're not going to make it. One day he's going to lead them all to their deaths. It's not the idea itself that makes Robin's skin crawl, but the fact that he's accepting it with the fatalistic calm of a man who has nothing to lose anymore.

He knows it's unfair to the others, and he wishes he could start caring again. He just doesn't remember how. 

If he's snappier than usual, it's only because he's so desperate to feel something – anything – or at least pretend that he does, and anger comes more naturally than most other feelings these days. The others, sensing his mood, try to stay out of his way when they can. Even Allan holds back on the smart-ass comebacks.

One afternoon, after a trip to Nottingham to try and catch the latest rumours on the Sheriff's plans and collect some supplies at the market, he returns to the camp to find Much waiting for him with a smug expression.

"There you are!" he exclaims impatiently, as if Robin's been due back for a while and has kept Much waiting on purpose. The irritated reply never quite makes it out of Robin's mouth, because Much jumps up and rushes towards him, grabbing Robin's arm and dragging him off.

"Much, dammit, what's going on?"

"Come on, Master, we have to hurry!" It's not exactly an explanation, and Much just keeps steering Robin through the trees.

"Hurry where?" Robin asks, annoyed. "And would you stop manhandling me already!"

But Much doesn't let go of his wrist, and picks up the pace. Robin isn't sure whether he should be worried, but Much doesn't act frightened or panicked. If anything, he seems excited. "Just around that tree."

" _What's_ just around the tree? You can't just drag me off like—" 

The sight of the tub, looking out of place in the middle of the small clearing, cuts off the rant Robin was about to let loose. For a moment, all he can do is stare. It's an old wooden tub, patched up in some places but big enough, and the steam rising from the water into the cool spring air makes him want to shed his clothes and just jump in.

He feels Much's eyes on him, appraising his reaction, and when he turns to look at his friend, there's a broad grin on Much's face. 

"You like it!" Much exclaims, which is just about the most stupid thing he's said all week.

"Of course I bloody like it!" Robin says, breaking into a smile. 

It's the first time he's smiled since—since the Holy Land. It feels strange on his face, as if the muscles around his mouth aren't used to it anymore. Robin wonders if it looks the way it's supposed to, or if it's some grotesque grimace. But Much doesn't look at him weirdly, so he must be doing it right.

"Good! Because I figured with everything that's been going on, you needed to relax, and then I found this old tub in a village last week and they said I could have it, so I thought, why not? You should—" He makes a nondescript motion with his hand. "You know, get in before it gets cold. I'm not heating all that water up again. It was hard enough to do it once, I tell you! You have no idea how long it took to fill the tub."

Robin chuckles softly at the familiar flow of words and presses a quick kiss to Much's temple, where hairline meets skin. "Oh Much! Always so thoughtful. See, that's why I love you."

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he realizes two things. One, the friendly banter between him and Much that once came so familiar and natural is rusty and awkward now, like treading on ground that's littered with hidden traps. And second, the last person he said those words to, the last person he told he loved, is dead and buried. 

He feels himself choking on the heaviness of the words, the onslaught of memories that make them almost blasphemous, the bitter aftertaste, and he hastily adds, "You know, as a friend loves another friend." 

It's a qualification he never needed before, not with Much, but it somehow seems crucial now, and saying it makes him feel at once relieved and guilty.

He pretends he doesn't see how Much's face falls. For a moment, he's almost tempted to take it back, but he can't. Much is his friend, and Robin can have friends. He can't have anything else. Not after Marian.

"Right, yes. Of course," Much says, a few seconds too late for the nonchalance to be sincere, and his smile is so bright and fake that it hurts to look at it.

* * *

_III. (I used to live alone before I knew you)_

When Robin jumps out of his hiding place in front of the travellers who are making their way through the forest on horseback, two familiar faces greet him. For a moment, surprise renders him speechless.

Fortunately, Much rushes forward, and he has enough words for both of them. "Oh my God, it's you! It's _really_ you! I thought it looked like you when you came over the hill, but then I said to myself, 'No, it can't be.' But it really is you! What are you doing here? I mean, not that we don't want you here, of course, but didn't you plan to stay in the Holy Land? Settle down, and all?" 

Will laughs and jumps from the horse, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, Much." 

Watching them, Robin just stands, still rooted to the spot. He didn't expect he'd ever get to see Will and Djaq again. They were just another casualty of the Holy Land, even though he felt a pang of guilt every time he thought of them like that, reminding himself that they were alive and happy, that they hadn't died – they just chose to leave all of this ( _him_ ) behind.

But here they are, and it feels every bit like seeing two ghosts.

"I'm not being funny, but don't you think you should stop aiming that bow at 'em, Robin?" Allan points out, stepping forward. 

While Robin is still busy processing the reality of the situation, lowering the weapon he'd forgotten about for a second, he numbly watches Allan and Will facing each other with almost awkward, tense anticipation before Will crosses the distance and enfolds Allan in a hug.

"I missed you, mate," Allan says into Will's shoulder, and Robin knows Allan well enough to realise that he's aiming for a nonchalant greeting, even if he misses the sentiment by miles. His voice is hoarse with emotion, and Robin thinks it might be the most sincere, heartfelt thing he ever heard Allan say. Whatever Will says in return is muffled and too soft for Robin to understand, but he can see Allan tightening the embrace.

Then Djaq is at Robin's side and he finds himself hugged as well, Djaq's small hand curving around the back of his neck with a strength that shouldn't surprise him but does anyway, and Robin finally remembers how to breathe.

Afterwards, in the camp, Djaq explains that they didn't feel comfortable settling down when they knew that, back in Sherwood, their friends were still fighting. "Our dreams have not changed," she says. "We still want a home, and a family. But for now, until this fight is won, our place is here, with you."

She squeezes Will's hand when she says the words, and Robin doesn't quite have the heart to tell her that he's not sure anymore whether this fight can be won, if they won't all die trying. He's too glad that they're back; the camp feels a little less empty with them here, despite the Marian-shaped hole he cannot ignore.

But later, when they're sitting around the campfire and Robin is listening to Djaq and Much softly bickering while John is snoring on the ground beside them and Will is telling stories of the Holy Land with his head in Allan's lap, Robin feels more alone than ever.

* * *

_IV. (I did my best, it wasn't much)_

The first anniversary of her death, they hold a memorial for Marian. Djaq's idea, not Robin's, but everyone else thought it was the right thing to do, and even though Robin disagrees, even though he has no interest to stand there and share his grief with the rest of them, even though he thinks it's trivializing to have a minute of silence or an hour (as if there's a time limit to mourning), he doesn't want to fight them over it.

They're in the cave where Marian died two years ago. The memories the place brings out are both bitter and bittersweet, because Marian was dead then, too, and he still remembers the pain of standing in front of her lifeless body, but she came back. She came back to him.

She's not coming back now. 

Robin swallows hard and wills the tears not to fall because he promised himself that he was done crying. 

His jaw set and his emotions barely held, he watches Djaq light a candle. She speaks as if she's addressing Marian. Her voice is full of sadness and love, overburdened with the intensity of it, and Robin can't help but think that most people would feel self-conscious and awkward and weird, talking to a dead person with all their friends gathered around them, and the others would feel embarrassed to witness such a private moment. But it's Djaq, and she's so solemn and sincere and graceful about it that it's almost soothing.

"You are missed," she concludes, gravely. "Know that you will always be missed."

The words sting in Robin's eyes, or maybe it's the fumes from the candle, because it can't be tears. He swallows again and looks away as Djaq passes the candle on and it makes its round, every one of them talking to Marian as if she was right there among them. But she's not, and Robin wants to yell at them. He doesn't listen to the words, lets them wash over him like a waterfall, barely aware of John's gruff affection and Allan's fake nonchalance belied by the tremor in his voice, of Will's quiet sadness and Much's fruitless, stuttering search for words to describe his feelings.

The candle reaches him, as he knew it would, and he has too many things to say to Marian and nothing he wants the others to hear. He clenches his teeth until his face hurts, feeling the expectant gazes of his gang and knowing he won't get away with silence.

He settles on saying the one thing that sums it all up.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my love," he tells the candle, staring into the flame. He wants to see Marian's face in the orange-yellow flicker, but there's nothing: only fire and blurry, heated air surrounding it.

 _I promise I'll kill Gisborne for you_ , he adds, mentally. He knows that the others think he's abandoned his plans to avenge Marian's death and he doesn't want to upset them, but he needs to let Marian know that he won't rest until she has her revenge. 

Engrossed in the thought, he doesn't pay attention to the candle in his hands, absent-mindedly tilting it a little. Hot wax hits his fingers, coating them frost-white, and he winces and jerks his hand back.

* * *

_V. (how to shoot somebody who outdrew you)_

In late October, a year and twelve days after Marian's death, Robin gets drunk with Gisborne. 

Of course, that's not how it starts; it starts with swords clashing, the high, hollow sound of metal hitting metal, angry accusations followed by violent threats and then, finally, Robin's blade at Gisborne's throat and no one around to stop him. He hears his breath coming laboured and hard and rushed, and he feels the adrenaline surging through his veins like fire. He's hyper-aware of everything around him: the rustle of the leaves in the air, the smell of wet earth, the bright crimson tickle of blood easing from where his sword is pressing a little too firmly against the tender skin on Gisborne's neck. This, he thinks, is the moment he's been waiting for. Just a little more pressure on the blade, and it will be over.

Their eyes meet, months of pent-up frustration and bitterness and loathing transferring in one single glance. As if he can hear Robin's thoughts, Gisborne speaks, voice filled with derision, urging him on: "Come on, then, Hood. _Do it!_ This is what you've wanted, isn't it?"

Yes. No. What he wanted was to marry Marian and have children and grow old in Locksley. What he wanted was peace, not more killing. He remembers the candle and the sting of the wax, and he wonders if it wasn't some sort of sign. This revenge he vowed to give her... Marian would never have approved of it.

Disgusted with himself and Gisborne and everything his life has turned to, he eases off and puts the sword away.

"Get out of my sight, Gisborne," he says, wearily, and walks away, leaves rustling under his soles as his feet drag on. One step – two – three. 

It's not that easy, of course. The moment Robin turns his back on him, Gisborne picks up his own sword and rushes forward, and next Robin knows he's flat on his back with Gisborne above him and the tip of the sword pressing into his chest.

Robin looks up and watches the tight look on Gisborne's face, the throb of the vein above his right eye, the way his lips are pressed into a thin, white line. Robin wants to throw Gisborne's words right back at him, taunt him into plunging the sword through his body, but he can't bring himself to speak. 

Neither of them moves, and the moment stretches like a bow being drawn, taut and tauter with each passing second, until the strain becomes unbearable and something has to give. Gisborne's eye twitches once, twice – and Robin thinks, _that's it_. But the piercing pain he expects doesn't come, and the sword lands beside him in the grass with a soft thud. 

Gisborne looks tense and gloomy and as tired as Robin feels. The surge of sympathy that hits Robin is unexpected, unbidden and decidedly unwelcome, but when Gisborne offers him a leather-clad hand to help him up, he takes it with just a moment of hesitance. 

"She loved you," Gisborne says. His tone is so neutral that it could be anything: explanation, accusation, realization, acknowledgement or simple statement of fact. It should make Robin angry, but it doesn't – it just makes the weariness weigh down on him more heavily than it already does. 

_Yes_ , he thinks, bitterly. _She loved me, but she cared about you more than she'd ever admit, and we both loved her, and neither of us will ever get over her._

It's not until Gisborne says, "I don't _want_ to get over her," that Robin realizes that he's spoken the words out loud. He thinks it's a lie, because who wouldn't want to get over the pain and the loss and the all-consuming guilt? But it's not a conversation he's ready for, and not one he intends to have with Gisborne of all people.

He shakes his head to clear his mind and mutters, "I need something to drink," and walks off to find the cheap wine he knows Allan has been hiding. 

It was not meant to be an invitation, but Gisborne follows him anyway, and Robin can't muster the energy to tell him to get lost. Instead, he takes a swing from the bottle and hands it to Gisborne, who puts his mouth just where Robin's was a few seconds ago, before giving the bottle back to him. It makes Robin think of Marian again, of kissing her knowing that she just kissed Gisborne, the other man's taste still on her lips.

Something inside him screams that Marian is dead and buried, rotting away under foreign skies, that Gisborne killed her, and that Robin should put down that bottle, find his sword and take his revenge. Instead, he takes another long gulp, and then, handing the bottle back and forth between them, another and another and another, until the voices inside his head are silent and the world gets fuzzy and soft before his eyes.

He awakes the next morning with the ground uncomfortably hard and damp under him, Gisborne's elbow digging into his ribcage, and Much yelling at him while the rest of the gang glares. It's a cloudy, overcast day, but the daylight is enough to sting his eyes and set off a splitting headache. 

Much is still ranting, until at some point Robin can't take it anymore. "For the love of God, _please_ shut up, Much."

Of course, all he achieves is getting Much more aggravated. "What the hell were you thinking, sending us off on some... wild goose chase so you could go after Gisborne on your own? When we found you, we thought you had _killed_ each other! Which would have made more sense than you being all drunk and... cuddly. Why isn't he dead? You do remember that you were going to kill him, right? Wasn't that the whole point of the exercise?"

There's a groan from beside Robin's head. 

"I _wish_ I were dead," Gisborne rasps, with feeling.

"I can help you with that," John offers darkly. He's towering impossibly tall over them, his arms crossed menacingly before his chest.

It shouldn't be funny, but it is and Robin laughs – or tries to, because it sets off another surge of pain in his head that almost makes him puke. "No one's dying here."

Allan, who in this moment becomes Robin's favourite person in the world, offers him a cup of cool water, before producing a second one he hands to Gisborne. Djaq's angry look softens somewhat when the first cold mouthful makes Robin groan. 

"Are you alright?" she asks. 

He doesn't remember much of the previous night. They commiserated about how awful Allan's wine tasted while they emptied a couple of bottles, and at some point, they must have started talking about Marian, because Robin remembers getting angry and throwing a punch at Gisborne, stumbling and landing flat on his face in the process. He also remembers Gisborne's mouth under his: hard, punishing kisses, chasing some remnant of Marian's taste on each other's lips.

Robin frowns and tentatively probes his lower lip with his tongue, finding it bruised and chapped. His eyes meet Gisborne's, who holds his gaze unblinking, and something passes between them.

"I'm fine," he says as he turns back to Djaq with the hint of a smile, surprising himself when he means it.

* * *

_VI. (not a victory march)_

Things change, except they don't really. Fall ebbs into winter, red-golden leaves turning brown and dry. King Richard's return is delayed again, Prince John gets more powerful and the Sheriff keeps plotting and scheming. The people suffer the worst of it, and Robin helps where he can, knowing that it'll never be enough: some battles are won, but it feels like the war has been lost a long time ago, every hope of victory dead and buried in pale desert sand. Guy leaves Locksley and turns his back on the Sheriff and Nottingham and England, and even though Robin wants to begrudge him for leaving and accuses him of taking the easy way out, he's honest enough with himself that he knows he'd do the same thing if he could.

 _You can't run away from what you've done_ , he wants to tell Guy, but they're past the accusations by now, so what he says is, "You can't run away far enough that she won't follow you."

There's a flash of pain on Guy's face. 

"I know that," he says in a low, uncomfortably tight voice. "I'm not trying to run from Marian, or my guilt, or even you. There's just nothing here for me anymore."

And no matter how much Robin wants to object to that, he can't. He doesn't trust himself to say anything, so he won't; he just nods in agreement, jaw tightly set. The silence stretches and becomes uncomfortable. 

"I should be on my way," Guy says, and Robin impulsively stretches out his hand. Guy looks down at it as if it were some strange, exotic creature before grasping it in his own, the smooth leather of his glove warm and soft against Robin's skin. 

"Take care of yourself," Robin tells him, his voice gruff from holding back all the things he doesn't say. 

Guy holds on to his hand for a moment too long. "You too."

A minute later, he's just a small dot between the trees, dirt misting up the air as his horse rushes down the narrow path. Robin looks after him until he's out of sight before returning to the camp.

"Where have you been?" Much asks, annoyed. "I've been cooking."

"That's _why_ he was away," Will teases.

Robin quietly sits down between them and smiles as the banter drowns out the nagging voices in his head asking if there's anything left here for _him_.

* * *

_VII. (every breath we drew was Hallelujah)_

New Year's Eve finds them gathered around the campfire, sharing stories and mead. Maybe Much has had a little too much already because he suddenly stands up on wobbly legs, raising his cup as if he had an important announcement to make. In a solemn voice, he says, "I know I said this before, but, well, maybe we were all a bit preoccupied with dying at that point. So I'll say it again. I love you guys. I really do. Without you, I probably wouldn't– well, actually, without you, I'd probably be living a simple, peaceful life somewhere else, but that's not the point. I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world. And even if we all die tomorrow, which I really, really, _really_ hope is not going to happen, it would all have been worth it."

For a moment, no one speaks, and even the cool wind howling through the trees seems to still. Just when the silence is about to turn awkward, Djaq speaks up, somehow managing to sound both amused and serious. 

"We love you too, Much. You are a good man." She smiles warmly, and Much beams at her.

"That you are," John says, and claps Much heartily on the back, hard enough to make him the mead spill from Much's cup.

"You're all right," Allan admits reluctantly. "Sort of annoying, but all right." 

Will elbows him in the side and Allan yelps. "What he means to say is, you're our friend. You're important to us."

Much positively glows, and even though Robin is sure that the amount of alcohol in his blood has probably at least something to do with bringing the blush to his face, he knows that it's mostly about the others' assurance of their appreciation for him. He knows that Much, for all his posturing and his abrasiveness, is much less confident than he pretends to be and how much it means to him to hear these words.

The sudden wave of affection that overcomes Robin hits him by surprise in its intensity. This, he realizes, is the man who fought at his side in a war they were sure they were losing, far away under foreign skies where the closest thing to home they had was each other. This is the man who chose to leave every chance of a normal life behind, instead joining him in the forest on their return to England when Robin decided to take up the fight against the Sheriff and his injustice. This is the man who stood by Robin, even when Robin pushed him away and hurt him time and time again.

He realizes something else, too: he can't keep using Marian as an excuse not to let anyone get too close. It's not fair to Much, nor to Marian, nor to himself.

It's the worst possible time for an epiphany. While Robin is still mulling over it, Much stands in front of him, waiting for Robin to echo the sentiments of the others.

When nothing comes, his face hardens and the smile vanishes. 

"Right," he says, his voice flat and his tone unconvincingly conversational as he quickly forces the words out. "You know what? I think I had a little too much drink. I'll be going for a walk. You just stay here and have fun."

Even though he hasn't been paying attention, it's the foreign edge in Much's voice that jars Robin acutely back to the here and now.

"Much!" Robin calls after him, but the other man is briskly striding away into the darkness, putting distance between them quicker than Robin likes or would have thought possible.

Djaq glares at him. "You must fix this, Robin."

Her tone leaves no room for argument and would have made a lesser man cower. Robin matches her glare with one of his own. He doesn't need her to tell him what to do.

"I intend to," he tells her, forcefully, before he turns and goes after Much.

He almost slips on the snow-covered leaves twice, and once the fire from the camp is out of sight, the forest is dark, a menacing labyrinth of trees too dense for the pale moonlight to illuminate. He calls Much's name a couple of times, but there's no answer.

Then, when he's just about to go back to the camp, he finds Much in a clearing, where the light from the moon hits the ground and makes the outline of the lone figure clearly visible even from a distance. He's sitting on the edge of a small ridge with his back to Robin, legs dangling down.

He doesn't react when Robin silently walks over and sits beside him, not even favouring him with a look to acknowledge his presence. They sit like that for a moment that stretches until the silence becomes too oppressive and awkward. For once, it's Robin, not Much, who can't bear it any longer and speaks.

"I do love you, you know," he offers, quietly.

Much stares stubbornly ahead, eyes staring into the vast darkness of the forest. "Right. Of course you do." 

The drunken slur is gone from his voice, and he sounds more sober than Robin would like. His tone is clipped and hard, politeness stretching parchment-thin over anger that's as obvious as it would be if Much was yelling at him. The last time he's seen Much like this was... a long time ago, when Marian was supposed to marry Guy, and Robin thought it was the end of the world and threw spiteful, horrible words at Much with a smile that all but delivered the killing blow. It all seems so insignificant now, in hindsight: childish and stupid. If he knew then what he knows now— But he didn't, and he can't fix the past. 

But maybe, just maybe, he can fix the future.

"I _do_ ," Robin repeats, emphatically. 

"I know you do. You love all of us. We're your family – Will and Allan and Djaq and John and, well, me – and you couldn't be doing any of this without us." Much sounds like he's quoting something Robin once said back at him and maybe, probably, that's what he's doing. The words sound glib and unconvincing, just a fancy turn of phrase, and Robin has the sinking feeling that they sounded the same when they came from him. "And even though you seem to have increasing trouble actually saying the words, I know that you love us. You probably even love Gisborne when you're not busy hating him. You love everyone, just to ensure that they love you back."

Much sounds more resigned than angry now, though Robin is pretty sure that those last few sentences were meant to get a rise out of him. He refuses to take the bait. 

"And yet, I'm not with anyone else now, but sitting here in the dark and the cold with you."

Much snorts. "You followed me because you thought I was angry enough to do something stupid. 'Good old Much, better go after him and calm him down with some sweet talk before he gets us in trouble.' Well, I'll have you know that I am perfectly fine. So you can stop babysitting me."

He lifts his chin and stares at Robin with a challenging, stubborn sort of defiance that's all too familiar and stopped working on Robin years ago.

He rolls his eyes and releases a soft, exasperated laugh. "God, Much, you can be so dense sometimes."

And when Much opens his mouth, doubtlessly to begin a new rant of how he's tired of Robin's verbal abuse and how he doesn't feel properly appreciated and _loved_ , Robin leans forward and shuts him up with his mouth. 

Much's lips are slack with surprise and soft under his, but when Robin presses forward with a little more insistence and his tongue tentatively darts out, Much's mouth awakens under his with surprising ferocity. The kiss is desperate and clumsy, beards rasping against one another, lips clashing without finesse, and Much's fist tangles almost painfully in Robin's hair. 

Robin feels hungry and energized and _alive_ , more alive than he's felt since the Holy Land, since Marian died in his arms and everything he knew turned to ashes. He clings to Much like a drowning man, drawing the kiss out as long as he can, until his lungs protest and demand air.

They break apart, and Much looks confused and thoroughly mussed. It's a good look on him, Robin finds.

"You—You—You _kissed_ me!" Much splutters in wide-eyed indignation. 

Robin ducks his head and softly laughs. "You're being especially observant today," he teases, expecting Much to grin and join in the bickering. If anything, it has the opposite effect.

"Don't," Much says sharply, jumping up and pacing back and forth in front of Robin, his face set with anger and betrayal. It's a sobering sight. "Don't make a joke of this! I don't deserve to be treated like—"

"It's not a joke."

There must be something in Robin's voice that finally gets through to Much. He stops on the spot, looking at Robin, and the anger abruptly drains from his face, leaving in its wake an uncertain expression. 

"It's not?" Much asks, sounding as if he desperately wants to believe Robin, but can't quite trust him to tell the truth. It hurts a little to hear the doubt in his voice, to see it written all over his face, even though Robin knows he only has himself to blame.

"You're right," he admits. He doesn't look at Much when he forces the words out. "I do love all of you, and I need to be loved back, but you're different. And if you must know, it scares _the shit_ out of me."

"So, just to clarify, I'm more than just a friend to you, right?"

Robin remembers their discussion this summer, and the broken expression that briefly flashed across Much's face, and he knows he owes him the truth. "Yes, you are. You always have been." 

He sighs and keeps staring into the distance. "Do we really have to talk about it?" 

"No," Much assures him, quickly – too quickly – and Robin knows it's a gift to him, a concession to Robin's obvious discomfort with the prospect of talking about feelings. "No, of course not."

Robin smiles and looks at Much, at last. "Good." 

Much grins back and settles back down beside him in the snow, close enough that their legs are touching and their shoulders are bumping a little with every breath. The ground is cold and clammy under Robin's arse, but Much is warm beside him, and sitting together like this, in silence, is oddly comfortable. He angles his head and looks up through the trees into the clear, starry sky. The air smells cold and fresh and stings his nose a little. There will probably be more snow tonight, he absent-mindedly notes, while he's silently counting the seconds, waiting for Much to break the silence. It's an old game he started to play during the rare moments of peace, back when they were fighting in the Holy Land. Much could never be quiet for longer than three minutes, but this time he surprises Robin. He makes it to 387, and he's just about to look over and see if Much has fallen asleep, when Much finally coughs softly and speaks up.

"You love me? Really?"

The noise that escapes Robin's throat is a mixture between a groan and laughter. "Oh, shut up, will you?!" 

He throws a handful of snow at Much, laughing at the indignant squeal he receives in response, and he finally feels like he's come home.

End.


End file.
